The Absent Amorist
by iwriteinblueink
Summary: This story is inspired by the Granada series from 1984-1994 starring Jeremy Brett. January fourth, 1891. Sherlock Holmes foils a hostage attempt on the Prime Ministers life by a man named James Moriarty. By March, Moriarty has kidnapped John Watson. In order to save him, Holmes must allow himself to feel the strongest emotion in human nature: love.
1. Chapter 1

The pain that seared John Watson's shoulder like a branding iron was being held against it caused him to wake with a rough groan. He opened his eyes, inhaling sharply because the pain became more acute when he realized he had been laying on his injured side. As he rolled over, Watson mumbled a warning and reached out, expecting to find the comforting, lithe form of Sherlock Holmes beside him. Instead, he found cold rumpled bedsheets which suggested that they had suddenly been tossed aside a while ago. Worry ached alongside Watson's physical pain, inflicting a deep, ever-blossoming wound that no Jezail bullet could have ever inflicted. He pressed his hands against his eyes and exhaled, wishing that instead of the still, heavy air of sleep he was breathing in Holmes's scent.

He usually preferred a wash of rose water to freshen himself in the morning or before they retired. He was also quite fond of frequently dousing his beige and grey suits, black leather gloves, the navy blue scarf Mrs. Hudson knit for him, and his well-worn blanket with the liquid perfume Watson had bought for him last Christmas called Chiaroscuro, that began quite dark and velvety, then melted into notes laced with robust sweetness which culminated into a smell like blossoms and autumn. But when Holmes chose to indulge in a warm, earthy, and very musky wax-based perfume that mellowed as he wore it, blending in with the natural smell of his skin the more it was rubbed in, it was the most divine combination in existence to Watson.

With a sigh, he labouriously sat up in bed until the pain subsided to a dull throb and he could get up to dress himself in his burgundy robe. He slowly opened the door to their bedroom and squinted as the light from the fireplace shone brightly in the main room. Holmes's was sitting in his beloved chair, warming his elegant, outstretched hands by the flickering flames. He was wearing his brown robe on top his white nightgown, which was unbuttoned low to expose his neck and most of his chest.

As quietly as possible, Watson took the blanket from the wicker couch and approached Holmes to drape it across his shoulders. His long, delicate fingers reached up to linger on Watson's strong hands, making him pause for a moment to give Holmes's shoulders an affectionate squeeze and to bend down and kiss him on top of the head, braving a mouthful of tousled hair. It smelled strongly of smoke, and although he found a certain comfort in it, Watson grunted disapprovingly.

"I do hope someday you have your fill of cigarettes and allow your damaged lungs to heal."

Holmes hummed low in his throat, sliding his hands away to light another cigarette, the beginnings of a chuckle pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Do you know what the date is today, darling?"

Watson straightened, delight tremoring through him at how Holmes rolled his "r"s; not matter how used to it he was over the years, it never ceased to please him. "It is the twenty eighth of March," Watson replied, remembering only because today he had paid one of his regular visits to a silk merchant suffering from smallpox.

Holmes flicked the ashes into the smudged metal ashtray beside him with an air of contempt, where a sizable pile of cigarette ends were proof of how many hours had already burned away.

"Today is the day you..."

With abrupt viciousness Holmes crushed the reminder of his cigarette and buried his face in his hands. As he was hunched over, Watson noticed how his shoulders were tight with stress and exhaustion so he rubbed them soothingly. He yawned, feeling weary, but it wasn't just because he had been roused.

"Holmes, what matters is that I am here, now."

There was a long pause.

"But it could have been otherwise." Holmes replied in a shaking voice.

Watson sighed. "You will go mad if you allow your thoughts to torment you this way. Please..." Watson crossed to the front of the couch and dragged Holmes to his feet. "Come back to bed."

Holmes slid off his brown robe and followed Watson back to the bedroom, smoothing the creases of his nightgown as he walked. He got into bed, carelessly draping the covers across his torso, and leaned against the headboard with his hands clasped tightly together at his chest. Watson had turned over his pillow and was about to blow out the candle when he noticed Holmes was staring at him intently.

"You are not going to sleep?" Watson asked gruffly.

"I cannot."

After a moment of hesitation, he asked another question, already guessing its answer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Holmes bared his teeth in a harsh grimace and his eyebrows drew together. He waited, giving Watson a chance to take his silence for refusal and close his eyes. Eventually, when he realized Watson had expectantly propped himself up on an elbow, Holmes began to recount the events that still haunted him in a hushed voice, as if speaking any louder would cause them to come to pass once again.

"It was on January fourth of last year that I first encountered James Moriarty. I shall never forget it..."

* * *

The hedges on either side of the black door leading into the Prime Minister's home, a five storey blue bricked building with a formidable wrought-iron entrance gate, were still kept neatly trimmed. The water in the white fountain to the right at the start of the pathway leading to the back snow covered garden continued to flow cheerily despite the cold, its calming sound shrouding the sharp bursts of noise that reverberated through the foggy morning air. One could mistake the noise for worn wagon wheels striking cobblestone, or blacksmiths sharpening their tools for another day of hard work. Passing by the home and glancing at the windows, one could assume that the curtains were drawn because the Prime Minister and his staff were still peacefully sleeping. From the outside, all was well.

From the inside, it was different.

The bursts of noise were the cracks of pistols and rifles being fired in battle. From the inside, this battle was a storm of confusion and panic, anger and disbelief; precious statues and ordinary vases thrown at an assailant for a moment of distraction; finely crafted furniture overturned to provide makeshift shelter; panicked footsteps on bloodstained marble floors and cries of terror, pleas for mercy choking on gunpowder smoke, and the incessant assault of bullets which all gave the impression that everyone in the world was trying to kill each other.

Sherlock Holmes knelt beside the corpse of one of the Prime Minister's guards and grasped his arms, dragging him behind the fragile safety of a cracked wall separating the fourth floor servants quarters and the staircase below. Just around the corner, there was a long hall that led to the final set of stairs to the top floor. Keeping his back against the wall, Holmes carefully turned his head to see if it was safe for him to proceed. He cursed as he saw one of the intruders hunched over his fallen comrade. He looked up, and just as Holmes was about to move, he hastily fired a shot from his pistol. The bullet struck the corner of the wall, sending sharp pieces shattering through the air. One gashed Holmes's cheek, and he hissed in pain.

While he pressed a gloved hand to the cut and the other man was screaming incoherently down the hall in a booming voice, Holmes's mind raced feverishly. He had managed until now to maneuver through the chaos of the battle without harming anyone or being harmed. The damage was worse than he expected, however, and if he did not arrive in time to save the Prime Minister...Holmes's shook himself, his blue eyes glinting with hard resolve. He took the revolver from the guard's waist belt, then draped his grey tailcoat gently over the body. After adjusting the cartridge chamber, he observed that the model was manufactured by Webley and Scott; it was a double action break-top revolver, making reloading and extraction less time consuming, and it was certainly powerful, especially at close range.

After taking a deep breath, Holmes swiftly turned the corner and fired one precise shot into the right shoulder of the intruder, and one into his left foot. He collapsed with a howl of pain, and Holmes kicked his pistol away. As he looked down at the man, Holmes noticed that his dusty-blonde mustache was neatly trimmed and the way he grasped his shoulder suddenly reminded him of John Watson. His stomach churned with worry and apprehension as he ran down the hall, painfully aware of Watson's absence at his side: the calm confidence in his voice, the measured assurance in his stride, his warm, beguiling smile. By the time he had climbed the stairs and was standing in front of the oak door to the Prime Minister's rooms, he was breathing harshly and his waistcoat was thoroughly soaked in sweat. Gripping the revolver more tightly, Holmes opened the door wide and stepped inside.  
The Persian rug muffled his footsteps as he approached the Prime Minister and another man standing closely together by the floor to ceiling window overlooking the garden. On both sides of the wall, there were bookshelves and paintings in between white columns. The heavy ebony desk was littered with papers, a golden globe perched precariously on the front corner, and overturned ink bottles. As Holmes drew closer, he could hear them arguing.

"So you are willing to negotiate then?" The other man spoke in a deep, precisely clipped voice, enunciating his words in such a way that suggested an excellent education. He was older, his ash grey hair glinting with streaks of white at the temples, but his bearing was strong. As he squared his broad shoulders, the black frock coat he was wearing shifted slightly to reveal that he was holding a cane with a heavy golden handle.

The Prime Minister puffed out his chest indignantly. "No!"

The man sighed. "Perhaps we can reach an agreement while we're on the train to Oxford." he said, pulling the handle of his cane to reveal a sword.

"I think not!" Holmes interrupted them sharply.

The other man turned to look at him, surprise flickering across his brown eyes. "And who are you sir?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective, and it is my business to know what other people do not know."

The man smiled thinly. "I am James Moriarty, Professor at Oxford University. And I am also impressed you've managed to interrupt our discussion with such audacity." He reached into the pocket of his coat to pull out a half smoked cigar, motioned for the Prime Minister to light it with a match, and puffed heartily a few times. "How did you find me?""

Holmes's nostrils flared and he offered a crooked smile. "I must congratulate you on taking advantage of the fact that a person of such high position as the Prime Minister does not personally know all of his servants, for that allowed you to infiltrate your men. But," Holmes stepped forward and raised a finger, "he came to me after he received a report on his staff and noticed the number was much higher than it had been a month ago. He thought it was trivial, of course."

Holmes's eyes twinkled with amusement at the irony while the Prime Minister stared out the window, his ears red with embarrassment. "I began to follow these new men for a few weeks, and eventually I realized their trips to the arms masters were well co-ordinated, the timing meticulous and orderly, which demonstrated a foresight I knew could not belong to an ordinary criminal. You certainly organized well," Holmes acknowledged with a nod, "however once these trips became more frequent nearing the end of December, that alerted me to the danger, and I arrived today in hopes of getting the Prime Minister to safety before harm befell him." Holmes pointed his revolver at Moriarty. "I may have been unable to prevent this needless battle, but I will not let you cause any more death."

Moriarty spread his arms in a gesture of appeasement. "It is not my intention to kill him. Since you are clearly a man of high intelligence, surely you can understand this." He flicked his cigar away contemptuously and continued passionately. "I am an extraordinary man mister Holmes, and I have an extraordinary vision for the world I want to live in. I need people who have influence to help me create it." Moriarty paused, observing Holmes intently. Suddenly, he asked:

"Would you care to join me?"

Startling, uproarious laughter burst from Holmes and he titled his head back as if he simply could not contain his mirth. Moriarty and the Prime Minister looked on in bewilderment as the room rang with his light hearted, almost carefree voice. Recovering his composure, Holmes smirked and seemed to take great satisfaction in replying to Moriarty:

"With all due respect, sir: no."

The lines on Moriarty's face deepened as he frowned. He seemed genuinely disappointed. "That is unfortunate." He said gravely, putting his tophat back on and sheathing his cane. As he moved to walk out of the office, the Prime Minister whirled around to face Holmes. "W-why are you just standing there man? Stop him!"

Moriarty half turned to face them. He regarded the Prime Minister with an air of boredom and pity, then tipped his hat to Holmes in respect. "It is rare that my plans do not achieve the results I desire. That is entirely thanks to you today. A lesser man would not have even been able to realize the situation, let alone arrive just in time to stand in my way." His voice became colder now. "You have impressed me detective. But in exchange for the  
Prime Minister's well being, and if you have any regard for your own, you will allow me to leave."

Ignoring the Prime Minister's panicked spluttering, Holmes lowered his revolver slowly. His eyes never once left Moriarty's as the man backed away. Standing in the doorway Moriarty added "We shall meet again." Then with a vigor that seemed inappropriate for his years, he ran down the hall and disappeared from view.

Ripples of shock, amazement, and exhaustion traveled through Holmes as he leaned on the edge of the desk. Although the Prime Minister was screaming at him, Holmes was lost in thought.

"How dare you just let him leave after this massacre? After he _threatened _me? Why, I'll see you _hang_ for this, d you hear me, I swear I-"

Holmes held up his hand, halting the verbal onslaught. "I just saved your life," he reminded him irritably as he looked down at his nails.

"I know that, damn you!" The Prime Minister wrung his hands in frustration, tugging at the buttons of his suit and loosening his collar. "I just don't understand why you let him go! Why?"

Holmes shot him a long suffering look, pushed his matted hair back from his forehead, and simply walked away.  
He was nearly out the door when the Prime Minister asked "What are you-where are you going now?"

Holmes paused in the doorway much like Moriarty had done only moments before. He traced his fingers along the wood, imagining some residue of the man's aura was staining his skin and seeping into his veins-a way to feel him, to find him. Then Holmes answered calmly, but his eyes shone fondly.

"I'm going back to Baker Street. I have other cases that require my attention, and I have no doubt my worried housekeeper will be requiring my shillings, along with my impatient flatmate eagerly anticipating my return."


	2. Chapter 2

After several sharp knocks on the door of 221b Baker Street, John Watson rose from the wicker couch in the main room with a bounce in his step. He adjusted his blue polka-dotted cravat, smoothed his hair, and opened the door, beaming. Sherlock Holmes practically fell into his arms with a sigh, causing him to stumble backwards with a chuckle.

"My dear Holmes, you are-"

Watson drew a breath quickly as he pulled away, noticing the cut on his cheek. "_-hurt_."

Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "Do not trouble yourself good doctor."

Watson grabbed him by the arm and roughly sat him down on the couch. "Don't move." he commanded sternly. Holmes raised an eyebrow. He crossed his legs as Watson went to the back room and returned with his medical kit. He began to tend to Holmes's cut, delicately cleaning it and pausing when he noticed Holmes's hands clench on his knees.

"I'm sure the reason you were hurt is, as usual, extraordinary." Watson said dryly, dragging his fingers along Holmes's jaw. He felt his pulse, pressing just firmly enough to feel the flush of heat rise in pale cheeks. Then he titled Holmes's head back slightly, peering intently into his eyes. Holmes fluttered his lashes and smirked.

"Well I am after all, an extraordinary man." He replied as he reached for his clay pipe. "And very modest too."

Watson snorted and rolled his eyes. He went over to the cabinet by the breakfast table, choosing two thick glasses and a bottle of brandy. While they drank, Holmes told him about his encounter with Moriarty. He examined the floor as Watson's eyes widened in shock.

"You simply let Moriarty escape."

"Yes. You think I am wrong?"

Watson sighed, sloshing his brandy around in the glass. "I think it was unwise."

Holmes grunted.

"Why did you let him escape?"

Now Holmes pursed his lips and shifted closer to Watson on the couch. "The answer is quite simple: there was an understanding between us, a...respect." Holmes said slowly, clasping his hands together as if to emphasize the point. "The Prime Minister was not harmed. And I have no doubt that I will see Moriarty again. Except next time, I fully expect you to be there. It matters to me." Holmes murmured, tightening his grip until his knuckles turned white.

"All that matters to me is that you are here, now." Watson murmured, leaning in to loosen Holmes's collar and gently tugging at the buttons of his waistcoat. Abruptly, Holmes seized his wrists. He stood up roughly, walking towards his study

"Holmes!" Watson's voice quivered with hurt.

"I cannot allow myself any distractions. No matter how pleasurable they may be." Holmes said. "Not until I have Moriarty in my grasp again." His gaze pierced Watson, at once chilling and arousing him to the core. There was no room for argument. He simply regarded Holmes with an expression of resignation until Holmes tilted his head in thanks. Then he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

They stepped out of the carriage, the new-fallen snow glistening in the light of the full moon and crunching beneath their boots. While Watson adjusted the revolver in his orange velvet tailcoat to make sure it was concealed, Holmes drew his cape around him more closely. It was black, with a gold clasp a the left shoulder, lined with red satin, and complemented his embroidered double breasted waist coat and trousers perfectly.

"I still cannot believe I let you persuade me come to this ball." Holmes said petulantly. "Do you know that this cape was made by Brett & Co.? The cord suffocates me constantly."

"I still cannot believe you insisted that I bring my revovler. You spent your whole birthday sulking in your study, and I had to drag you out to enjoy Mrs. Hudson's excellent dinner. As this is my present to you, I am certainly not going to allow you to miss it."

"Well, despite making me wait until the middle of February to enjoy it, this is a nice gesture." Holmes muttered as they joined the people entering No. 11 Cavendish Square. It was an elegant building, entirely white, and pleasantly spacious. As they stood in the front hall, Watson's eyes lit up in excitement at the chandeliers, the intricate, colourful designs on the polished marble floor, the glorious costumes and masks, the enchanting music drifting out from the ballroom, and of course the generous amounts of food prepared in the dining rooms.

"Shall we?" Holmes asked softly, slipping his mask on. It too was black, carved in the shape of a wolf, and covered the top of his face so that his beautiful eyes were vividly accentuated.

"I think I will eat first." Watson replied, stepping away with an apologetic shrug.

"Of course." Holmes turned on his heel sharply, causing the cloak to snap behind him. "I will be in the ball room. I hear Tchaikovsky." he said happily, waving his fingers through the air in time to the music.

When Watson returned, pushing his way through the crowd of people in an attempt to cross the floor before another dance started, he had no difficulty finding Holmes. He was at the foot of the ornate staircase leading to the upper floors, leaning against a pillar and simply observing. Watson took off his golden fox mask and angled his body so that when their fingertips brushed briefly, the action was hidden from view.

"The Duke Thomas Carford is here tonight." Holmes told Watson and gestured to the man wearing a white costume embroidered with gold trim. "And if he is here, than so is Moriarty."

Watson's jaw slackened. "So _that's _why you really agreed to come!"

Holmes flashed him a crooked smile. "Exactly."

"Of course he would be here." Watson said, carefully watching Holmes face for signs of encouragement. "Carford has great influence in the Army..."

A servant walked by them with a tray of champagne. As Watson absentmindedly reached for a glass, Holmes knocked his hand away and waved dismissively. "I would not drink anything here tonight Watson. It is drugged with liquid morphine and I need you alert instead of drowsy."

Watson cursed. "I had wine at the dinner table! No wonder it was so bitter."

Holmes looked at him in concern. "How much?"

"Just a few sips but-"

"I had a few myself. At the moment, I feel fine. But perhaps that is because I am more resilient to it than you."

Watson scowled and was about to retort when Holmes swiftly motioned at the man with a lion's mask that was at Carford's shoulder. "There!"

The orchestra began to play Aram Khachaturian's Masquerade Waltz. The violins and trumpets soared blissfully over the room, accompanied by flutes and eventually the thundering timpani. Holmes and Watson drew aside as The Duke and Moriarty ascended the stairs briskly and turned down the hall to the right. They waited for a few more moments, watching the ladies and gentleman twirl around the room and switch partners as the measures of the waltz flowed into each other.

"You know my dear, I would have loved to dance with you tonight." Watson muttered. Holmes patted his shoulder affectionately and they quickly followed the two men.

The hallway was dim, and only one door near the end of the left side had light spilling out from the bottom. Holmes pressed a finger to his lips and Watson withdrew his revolver, wrapping his forefinger around the trigger as he opened the door. Moriarty and Carford turned, bewildered, and Moriarty ripped off his mask with a roar of outrage. He reached for the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small pistol that fit easily into his palm. He pointed it at Holmes, but Watson swiftly came between them, raising his revolver level with Moriarty's head.

"Get out of the way, you fool." Moriarty snarled, cautiously moving towards the door. "Move, or I'll shoot!"

Watson's voice was deadly and his eyes blazed. "If you dare, it will be the last thing you ever do."

Holmes grasped Watson's injured shoulder with alarming strength. ""Watson, Watson, let him go, I don't want you hurt, let him go!"

"Not another time!" he snarled, trying to free himself. But Holmes held on with his vice-grip,applying just enough pressure for Watson to wince and lower his shoulder in order to shift his center of balance. But Watson still kept the revolver steady. Moriarty glanced from one man to the other, completely ignoring the Duke cowering in the corner as he continued to back away. Once he had reached the door, he spoke in a voice as black and as chilling as the night.

"This is the second occasion that you have chosen to stand in my way, Holmes. I offered you a respectable choice, you have made your poor decision." His gaze lingered on Watson for a moment before he ran away once more, shouting over his shoulder:

"And you will suffer for it!"


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes stared out the window with a shrewd, almost angry expression claiming his features as he watched carriages, carts, hansom cabs and people pass by below. His mind was deeply restless; it was getting near the end of March and Moriarty's trail had become cold. If he did not find some fresh clues soon, Holmes was certain he would be at a complete loss to truly bring him to justice. Although his hands slid smoothly along the edges of his oiled hair, the motion was cold, betraying the barely contained fury boiling in his veins. Watson was the only person capable of calming him, while also summoning the uncontrollable emotions he kept carefully contained. Watson was the greatest crack in Holmes's marble edifice, and through it, the very essence of his being poured through.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Watson entered and Holmes's allowed a ragged breath to escape from his lungs. The thundering pulse inside his head calmed down enough for him to say:

"You have quite an effect on me."

After he had hung up his hat and overcoat, Watson replied in a voice laced with intrigue:

"Please explain."

In a few swift strides, Holmes crossed the room and stood before him. Now that he had an opportunity to explain to Watson, to show him even, exactly how much love-yes, _love-_was threatening to spill from that crack in the marble, Holmes was terrified. The three words that seemed so simple to say now unfolded like entire universes in his mind, the secrets of which were so temptingly close, but out of his reach.

Watson noticed Holmes's silence, the way a certain kind of sadness softened his lips and the usually steely shine in his piercing gaze.

"Watson I-" Holmes's stuttered and took in another quick, shallow breath. "I care...I can't, I can't!" he cried out, shaking his head and looking down. He had tried so hard not to let his emotions interfere with the cold, exact facts of the situation they were in, especially with Moriarty's threat still lingering over every waking moment. After he had collected himself and looked up once more, he noticed that Watson had moved closer. Their eyes met, and an air of uncertainty, of expectation lingered for a moment until Holmes turned sharply and went to the drawer that contained previous cases and information on clients. He moved his hands ceaselessly along the parchment, pointedly refusing to look at Watson.

"I know you care for me." Watson said firmly, noticing how Holmes's fingers went still briefly. "I know you care," he continued as Holmes stuffed several papers back into the drawer and once again resumed gazing out the window, "because I care about you." When Holmes still didn't reply, Watson walked over to him and leaned in closer, looking intensely into his blue eyes.

"Sherlock, you should really know that I love you by now."

"John..." Holmes whispered, pressing a hand against his forehead and closing his eyes tightly, as if he was in deep pain. The significance of using their first names was not lost on him. Eventually, Holmes muttered his reply in a dark voice.

"We must be careful."

Watson sighed wistfully. "If only we didn't have to be so private...perhaps you can speak with the Prime Minister, you did save his life after all! Perhaps he could pardon us and-"

"There's nothing to pardon!" Holmes snarled. "There's nothing to ask permission for." In one quick, fluid movement, he placed his delicate fingers underneath the other man's chin and tilted his face upwards just enough to kiss him with surprising abandon and sincere enjoyment. Their lips met as swiftly as a mountain stream flowing ever-forward, and the sensation was just as refreshing. Holmes entwined his long fingers in Watson's hair, tugging it slightly as the other man pressed their mouths together even more forcefully. There was a sudden blossom of warmth in his chest as Holmes dragged his fingertips down his back then placed his hand in the middle of it for support, pushing Watson's body hard against his own with desperate strength, as if they could not be close enough. Holmes moaned softly, part of his mind intoxicated with the rush of desire and how much he longed to give in to it. But as always, his reason quickly returned and he tore himself away regretfully.

"We cannot just think of our own circumstances." Holmes said more calmly, although slightly breathlessly. "There are countless other people not in the Prime Minister's favour, living in secrecy, risking their very lives for love." There was no amusement or irony in his voice-Holmes was completely serious. But suddenly his concern changed to dismissal. "I cannot influence the Prime Minister anymore than you can, and even if I could..."

Holmes pressed a finger to his lips and Watson noticed his other hand clench into a fist. "Let others live as best they know, as we try to do. I don't mind our privacy. I value our safety-_your_ safety-far too much to arouse suspicion and risk unnecessary danger."

"Being yours is always dangerous." Watson said with a twinkle of good humour in his eyes.

Holmes smiled wryly. "I warned you of that from the very beginning."

Watson put one arm around Holmes's waist while he loosened Holmes's fist enough for them to interlock their fingers. With Watson resting his chin on Holmes's shoulder, they forgot about caution and stood boldly in plain view of the window like this for a few moments, simply breathing each other in, watching the people bustle up and down Baker Street. Then Holmes stiffened as he heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. Watson moved to the wicker couch just as the door opened.

"Mister Holmes, I have a letter for you." the landlady announced, handing it to him.

Holmes snatched it from her, walked over to his chair by the fire place, and sat down. His eyes moved rapidly as he read and within seconds he called out "Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He sighed as she left the room and lit his long cherry-wood pipe, puffing deeply a few times until he smoothly exhaled a cloud of smoke. Wordlessly, he extended his arm and Watson took the letter from him to read out loud.

"Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

An unknown man has been following me to my home for several days, and I often see him lingering on the corner of Marylebone street past dusk. I am terrified he is after my considerably large fortune.I live in the thirty second house, and I urgently require your assistance.

Please come at once!

Lady Mary Elizabeth Collins."

Holmes smiled wickedly. "Watson, would you look up the surname Collins and tell me what information you find?"

After shifting through several drawers of papers Watson answered "There is no Collins."

"Precisely." Holmes murmured, pressing his fingers together.

"I should come with you." Watson said immediately.

"There is no need my good fellow. I hardly think that this woman will pose any real danger to me."

"Surely you have not forgotten Irene Adler." Watson couldn't resist reminding him.

Holmes paused for a moment, and his eyes went distant. "No, I have not forgotten. But Mary is not The Woman, she is merely _a_ woman, and so I will be perfectly fine."

* * *

The house was ordinary. It had a wooden facade which was blandly whitewashed, an unremarkable black shingle roof with a chimney, ivy growing along the south wall, and the small garden in the front was choked with weeds. As Holmes drew closer to the door, he noticed that the windows were severely unwashed. Marylebone Street was known to usually be a well kept part of the city.

Before he could knock, the front door was opened by a young woman with long, curled, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She was wearing a deep yellow low cut dress, marvelously frilled at the bottom.

"Lady Mary Elizabeth Collins." Holmes touched the brim of his top hat in greeting.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes." Mary fluttered her lashes, giving him her most beguiling gaze. Her voice was well articulated, but its quality, which should have been effortlessly smooth as expected for a Lady of high position, sounded restrained instead. She offered Holmes her hand to kiss, murmuring in her sultriest voice "I have been waiting eagerly for you." He brushed his lips against her lightly scented skin-highest quality lavender imported straight from France, as evident by how long it lingered-and his lips pressed into a thin line that was more a controlled grimace of distaste than a smile when he pulled away.

"I assure you my Lady," Holmes said with just enough emphasis to make her raise an eyebrow, " that although you are indeed beautiful, that is of no interest to me."

Mary's eyes narrowed for a moment and then she remembered to invite him inside. "The tea is ready, so we  
can enjoy it in the parlour."

Holmes chuckled as he stepped over the threshold. "All of this urgency in your letter, and yet we still have time for tea!" he remarked, watching her keenly. She offered him a half-hearted smile and went into the kitchen. At first glance, the house seemed indeed well kept. But the furniture-from the table on which he placed his hat, walking stick, and gloves, to the pictures on the walls with dusty frames-was placed far too correctly to be considered freely put there as a matter of personal taste. The air smelled stale as well, suggesting that the windows had not been opened in a long time. What most vividly moved Holmes was the soulless, uninhabited feeling that rang throughout the place-it was an empty house in the purest sense.

"Please make yourself comfortable!" Mary called from the kitchen. Holmes quietly walked up to the doorway, observing her opening several empty cupboards until she found the one she had left the teaset in. He tapped his fingers against the wall rapidly, debating whether or not to reveal his knowledge now or later, then decided to find out how seriously Mary thought she could fool him.

Holmes sat stiffly on the Chesterfield couch and ignored his tea while she reclined opposite him in a rocking chair. He acted as interested and serious as he could.

"Now my lady, please describe what this gentleman that followed you looked like."

Mary daintily sipped her tea before answering. "He was about your height. Older. His hair was grey. Broad shouldered. He also had a cane."

This could have been the description of any man in London. But Holmes felt cold fear freeze his veins, slowly squeezing his heart until he had difficulty breathing. It should not have surprised him at all, considering that he knew the facts, and that truth was the hammer that landed blow after merciless blow against his marble edifice. He stood us so suddenly that Mary cowered in her chair, an expression of shock on her face as Holmes rapidly spoke words that smoked with black fury.

"I knew something was wrong when you sent me the letter, and this visit has strengthened my knowledge. The house has not been lived in for years! The furniture is dusty, worn, and remains in exactly the same position it was when it was first acquired. You have not lived here because you do not know where your own teaset is! And you are no lady, much less one with any considerable fortune," Holmes snarled contemptuously as he advanced on Mary, "because not only do you lack the grace and morality, but you have no servants! You have no dignity, you have no authority, you have _nothing _but that dress and a pretty face that serves as a mask to hide the essence of you."

Holmes went very still and closed his eyes, trying to think, if only he had a moment of peace to _think!_

"I should not have come here."

That was the heart of the truth, and the blow from it crushed Holmes entirely.

"And yet you just had to prove that you were right!" Mary cried out with vicious triumph. "Moriarty knows you well."

Holmes's head snapped up at the name. He whirled around, running out of the house and back to Baker Street as fast as he could.

His head was spinning and he felt as if he was plummeting through the very fabric of reality by the time he was in the foyer of the building. Panting, he ran up the stairs and burst open the door of 221b to find Mrs. Hudson on the floor, sobbing.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted, rushing over to help her stand. When he quickly examined her to make sure she was not harmed, she buried herself in his chest while he held her firmly against him, murmuring assurance until she calmed down.

"Please tell me what happened."

"Oh Mister Holmes it was terrible!" she said as she grasped his shoulders in despair. "I was just about to go upstairs and bring Watson some dinner when five men came in. I didn't like the look of them at all, not with their burly arms and brutish faces. But one of them, he acted like a real gentleman and like he was in charge. He bowed to me and asked politely if I knew where Doctor Watson was. Imagine my surprise!" she exclaimed as she blew her nose on Watson's beloved red handkerchief which Holmes picked up from the floor and handed to her. For a fleeting moment, he was almost glad Watson was not here to witness that because he would never hear the end of it.

"I'm so sorry, I thought he might have been important." Mrs. Hudson continued, then her voice cracked and fresh tears flowed down her tired, kindly face. "I heard the shouting and the fighting from down here. When they returned with Doctor Watson bound and gagged, I begged them to let him go, out of respect for me at least. But all that treacherous gentleman did was hand me this note and leave!"

Holmes took it from her with trembling fingers. When he read the words that were scrawled on the parchment with red ink, he let out a piercing cry of pain and would have crumpled to the floor if Mrs. Hudson had not caught him.

_The Lion of March ate The Lamb of Spring.__  
_


	4. Chapter 4

It was just another well kept secret.

And yet, to call it a _secret_ was rather insulting considering the fact it was anything but that between Holmes and Watson. There was nothing secretive about their kisses, the kind of kisses that promised sweat and gasps, panting and groaning and most importantly, a blissful, satisfactory conclusion that Holmes could not achieve either with his cases or his cocaine. It was sweet torment to remember the way Holmes would exhale shakily when Watson's moustache brushed against the skin just under his long, slightly crooked nose, the way he would slip his tongue past sharp teeth, hot and wet, demanding a response. How Watson would grind himself along Holmes's height, slipping his hands under the waistcoat, and then under the pinstriped trousers, causing Holmes to growl approvingly low in his throat. The way their skin connecting felt honest and warm and proper, as transparently sharp as glass on glass-and just as cutting.

There was nothing secretive about their conversations, whether they were in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning: the words they exchanged were simple, but carried a vulnerability, understanding, trust, and a seriousness balanced by soft chuckles as they nuzzled into each other after an exciting, tiring case. But often, the most profound conversations they had were entirely in silence. A hand on the shoulder, or a smile; Watson placing a blanket around Holmes, or Holmes lighting a cigarette for him; a gaze as breathtaking in its intensity as it was surreal by its very nature-Watson realizing that the times Holmes observed him like he was a mystery to be solved were the times that he felt most alive. That there was still so much that neither or them knew, that even Holmes,with all of the distance he tried to keep, could not resist the truth that love was the answer to the question he had wondered for so long:

Do I belong here? Do _I _belong here? Do I _belong _here? Do I belong _here? _

And Watson always answered him with open arms. It was precious. But the world outside 221b had interfered with their lives in the worst way.

And now, it was no longer a secret.

* * *

Holmes gasped as he doused freezing water from the basin on his face. Since he was wearing a white silk shirt with the collar up, it quickly became soaked. The material rustled when he moved, feeling cool against his warm skin. He lit a cigarette and observed his gaunt reflection: his hair was untrimmed, wild, and fell across his forehead. Although he had allowed faint stubble to make an appearance on his prominent chin, whenever he rested it in his hands while he was lost in thought, the rough sensation still surprised him. He was even more pale than usual. His eyes were raw, haunted, and flickering with a barely suppressed savagery.

Last week, Mrs. Hudson had found him collapsed on the floor, barely conscious, in front of his desk with three bottles strewn around him and his hypodermic syringe missing from its velvet morocco case. She had instinctively called out for Watson's help, but of course had to drag him into the bath herself. He had moaned and muttered incoherently as she washed him, his body burning no matter how cold the water was. She was surprised at how his usually clean manner had deteriorated. His weakness was alarming too, as he stumbled when walking over to the bed, listlessly trying to fend Ms. Hudson off as she tucked him in and sternly scolded him. She brought a hearty stew and forced him to eat under her watchful eye until he was nursed back into colour.

She had sat on the edge of the bed one evening, watching him while he pretended to sleep. After a while, she said:

"There is something you are not telling me Mister Holmes."

He opened one eye and smiled slowly, savouring her words. There was a lot he had not told her, and how could he? He had no particular desire to explain in any sort of detail how he had mercilessly worked his mind to try and find any clues that would lead to Moriarty's and Watson's whereabouts. How he was terrified that the reason he did not have a logical way to move forward was because he was paralyzed with fear that every moment he delayed, Watson was being harmed, or that Holmes might be _too late. _When he was not at Scotland Yard demanding a report from Inspector Lestrade on whether they had made any pitiful progress, he was shut inside sifting through newspapers, maps, books and trying to numb the pain that was excavating his chest as he felt Watson's absence as acutely as if he had been run through with a saber.

So how could he explain to Mrs. Hudson then, that he not only needed the cocaine to keep his mind functioning, pushing well past the point of grinding it to dust, when he also needed the morphine to calm him enough for the very same reason? How could he explain how he resented himself for the way his long, pale, long, nervous fingers shook as he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff? How could he explain that while his eyes looked at his sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture marks, he thought of Watson's many warnings and considered hurling all of these artificial stimulants out the window? That he hated them, _hated _them, but that when finally, he thrust the needle into his veins, pressed down on the end, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair by the fire with a long sigh, he thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of extreme clarity and absurd confusion?

Yet all of this would be easier to explain than telling her he was in love with Watson, and that was why he would surely die if he failed him.

Holmes cleared his throat. "It is not important."

Mrs. Hudson tenderly pressed a hand against his brow. "I may not have your remarkable powers of observation, but I am not quite blind yet, you know. And I have my intuition!" she added with a wink, then became serious once more. "I know you have been working yourself to death to find Doctor Watson. I miss him and I don't want to lose him...I would say I feel this as much as you do, but you feel more than I ever could. After all, I have seen you two arm and arm many times." Holmes sat up a bit straighter, his eyes widening and his heart thumping madly in his chest. "Mister Holmes, there is a fine line between a person we consider our friend and a person we consider our lover. Sometimes, the best of relationships can erase that line and create something unexpected."

"I do not know what you are talking about." Holmes replied, reaching for his tea in an effort to distract her. She swatted his hand away.

"I do hope you know Mister Holmes that there are many beautiful women in the world which you could settle down with and for the life of me cannot understand why you would choose a man but-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes snapped. "I am very well aware of the women in this world, and their ways, but I have not chosen _a _man, I have chosen _Watson_ and in fact-" Suddenly, Holmes fell silent and went pale at his unplanned confession. He swallowed hard, and tried to look at her without losing his composure. When he continued, his voice was strained. "I do not even think I had a choice in this matter. I have tried to think of it rationally, to dissect and examine it, to observe and find logic in this phenomenon, and I have entirely failed. I cannot-I cannot stop it. And Watson-my dear man!"

Holmes's chest heaved and with enormous effort, he managed to slip the words between his clenched teeth. "He never tried to help me stop it. He...he r_eciprocated,_ and then I was consumed even more." Holmes managed a tired, fond smile. "I never thought that he would understand more profoundly what I cannot even begin to piece together, but Watson admitted to me that during his days in the army, he felt just as lost and alone as I did. He found the ache in his heart had been soothed by Stamford who was in the same regiment, and that he discovered a man could make him as impassioned just as much, if not more, as a woman." Holmes spoke very softly now, watching Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen and narrow with each word, feeling sick and exhilarated and foolishly, terribly brave.

"He knew, when I looked at him with such _need_," Holmes spoke the world as if it was being torn from the very skin of his heart, "that I ached too. And he has become my anchor in a world of greed, misery, and violence. We try, for your safety and ours, to be discreet. But now you know why I will not lose him, I _will not _lose him, and I have tried to remain unmoved but-"

Mrs. Hudson took his hand and held it. "You cannot stop love, dear."

Holmes blinked as if she had just slapped him.

"You love Doctor Watson," Mrs. Hudson said slowly and cautiously, as if she was discovering a new language, "and I understand how much you both risk to be...to be-_lovers_." She paused at the word as if feeling the weight of its meaning for the first time. Then she simply shrugged and said "As long as you both pay your rent, then I have no reason to evict either of you."

Holmes just stared at her for a heartbeat, then began to laugh, louder and more forcefully until his entire body shook. He leaned in to give her a spectacular kiss on the forehead and hugged her, murmuring "Bless you!" until she pushed him back onto the bed.

"Now you need some rest," she said, gathering the teaset. As Holmes began to protest, she told him in quite a matter-of-fact voice "You will not be any closer to finding Doctor Watson if you are not well."

"I cannot find him if have not even a single clue! Moriarty has left me _nothing._" Holmes raged.

"Then if I may make a suggestion Mister Holmes," Mrs. Hudson could not resist adding before she closed the door, "perhaps you are expecting clues from the wrong man."

* * *

For the first time since Watson's disappearance, Holmes walked around Baker Street and _observed_. He noticed that the carriage waiting in front of the antique dealer had a loose spoke in the wheel which caused it to clatter more than usual. The mangy dog that usually dozed in the sun all afternoon near the post box had been claimed by a young sailor with a scar running through his right eye. This morning, there was only one man in the newspaper stand shouting the headlines because his companion had contracted a cold, which was manifesting itself in the man's red, running nose and his watery eyes. He coughed harshly as well when he handed Holmes the paper; Holmes curled his lip slightly in disgust. He flipped open the pages, meticulously reading every advertisement, obituary, editorial, and gossip. Frustrated, he turned it over and began again. This time, he paid particular attention to a lengthy article entitled "Lamb to the Slaughter: The Prime Minster's Defense Disaster." He moved his finger delicately over each word. The first instance, a vowel was missing, and the second instance, there was a missing consonant. A smile radiantly lit up his face as he reached deep in the pocket of his coat for his notebook and pencil, then began to scribble the missing letters in order. When he was finished, he ran back inside to show Mrs. Hudson the four words.

_Weston-on-the-Green._

Within the hour, Holmes was on the train to Oxfordshire.


	5. Chapter 5

The Manor was sprawled across the rolling hills of Weston-on-the-Green like a black, unhealing wound that had furiously ravaged the earth. Its foreboding silhouette could be seen even from the village of Cotswold, which was no more than a dozen houses on either side of a wide dirt road. The driver of the carriage had refused to continue up the hill to the Manor, so much to Holmes's irritation, he had to walk the rest of the way. However, the glory of the Spring morning was not entirely lost on him: even if the slight fog clinging to the sheep pastures here and there contributed to a sinister atmosphere, the sky was a clear and delightful shade of blue. The sun slipped merrily through the leaves of the respectably wide and tall oak trees, and the air was refreshingly sweet in contrast to the often suffocating air of London. Holmes reflected that this would have been the perfect opportunity for a charming stroll with Watson and sighed wistfully as he approached the Manor's heavy black gates.

The outer wall was not dauntingly tall, but the stones had been smoothed considerably over the years, so climbing over would prove extremely difficult because his hands and feet would not find much purchase. Holmes regretted not bringing his burglary kit with him as it had his grappling hook; he slammed his black cane down angrily on the gravel path and began to frantically pace in front of the gate. He could see the Manor just beyond: the central tower with a stained glass window surrounded by vines, the large hedges and statues on the front lawn, the sturdy, thick stone of the walls.

Holmes leaned against the gates, intending to slip his thin arms through and try to shift the lock, when they simply creaked open. He stepped away in surprise. Watson had told him once that he spent too much time analyzing and constructing such complex situations only he could solve instead of appreciating the present moment that he often missed what was so obvious and simple; now he felt foolish as he realized Watson was right. Of course, there was always the possibility that he could be right. Occasionally.

As Holmes walked up to the intricately carved mahogany front door, he noticed the Moriarty Coat of Arms hewn into the arch above it: a roaring lion against a shield with the letter M emblazoned on it in florid style. Taking a deep breath, Holmes knocked forcefully on the door. After several agonizing moments, it was opened by a maid who curtsied in greeting.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. Is Professor Moriarty here?"

"Y-yes he is, sir. Please come in, I'll announce you."

"Thank you." Holmes said with an ironic smile. He let the maid take his deerstalker hat and his cane, then stood still in the front hall fidgeting with his tweed suit until he eventually settled with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through him as he looked around. There were suits of armor to his right, split into hundreds of fractured reflections by the heavy glass chandelier that was suspended quite precariously above him. There were grey tapestries lined with golden trim to his left that shimmered as servants rushed by.

Holmes cautiously took a few steps forward, half-expecting to be ambushed, his sensations sharpened to the point of brutality so that even his thoughts became a screaming cacophony. He was fully expecting Watson to be chained in some sort of dungeon, broken, beaten, as helpless as a lamb and as sure to be led to the slaughter. Holmes let out a haggard breath, pressing his gloved hands against his face as he tried to shut out the world. For a few moments, all he knew of Moriarty raced through his mind, and that gave him focus.

Moriarty was well respected at Oxford University, although he drew as much criticism from his colleagues as he did admiration because of his outspoken convictions. It was his inviolable principles that elevated him to a higher persona, and it was his intelligence that distinguished him. His family had resided in Oxfordshire for generations, and this heritage afforded him not only unquestioned integrity, but also a vast family fortune which could have bought him the allegiance of anyone. But a man of Moriarty's character would not allow himself to fall so low as to substitute money as the true currency between human beings.

Moriarty much preferred to study them thoroughly and precisely, piercing every pathetic facade of emotion between the absolute truth and a version of the truth that was more _acceptable_. By the time someone had just begun to realize how little they knew of Moriarty, he had already understood them more intimately than a mother understood her child. It was all so preposterous, but also entirely amusing-useful. And fascinating.

When other people spoke of finding friendships and profound connections, Moriarty only understood abstractions. Love, hate, joy, anger-even when he could feel the presence of these emotions in others, they translated in his perception to the kinds of feelings that actually made sense: jealousy and possessiveness, because he was fierce when anyone infringed on what is rightfully his. Pride, by extension, was his most precious virtue and indignation his undeniable right, when any dared to question his honour or his rightful place atop the natural hierarchy of authority. And although he tolerated the common rabble of the world merely because they existed largely to provide an audience of sufficient size to do justice to his grandeur, intolerance at the illogical processes of the universe and the undisciplined lives of its inhabitants was his normal state.

Moriarty did not find other people to be very interesting. Or in actuality, to even be entirely real.

Which was why Holmes knew he was the exception to this rule, and also that it was the only reason he was still alive. He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of footsteps on the wooden staircase across the room. Moriarty descended slowly, and the way his left hand trailed along the banister suggested that he carried himself with a dignified grace. His clothes certainly seemed to re-enforce his manner as he was wearing a red wool vest in a houndstooth design over his shirt, and refined black trousers. But his appearance was contradicted completely by the candid surprise in his voice as he simply said "Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes's reply was cold. "Moriarty. If you value your life, you will give me your assurance that Watson is unharmed."

Moriarty allowed himself a near-invisible smile. "I have found over time that the value of one's life cannot be accurately given any assurance." Holmes stepped closer to him, his eyes narrowing dangerously, but Moriarty held up his hand. "Watson is far too entertaining a companion for me to harm, Mister Holmes. He and I have exchanged enlightening perspectives on many issues, and his stoic instance that you would eventually arrive has proven to be right, it seems."

"Take me to him."

The courtesy of Moriarty's reply was effortless, as this was after all the hallmark of a true aristocrat. "Of course."

They walked beside each other and to an average observer they would have appeared to be comrades. As they passed by the rooms and halls, Moriarty did not hesitate to point out the breathtaking beauty of his library, or the calm seclusion of his garden glimpsed beyond the windows. Holmes was barely paying attention, and after a while, Moriarty fell silent until they reached the west wing of the Manor. "This room will interest you greatly." he said as he opened the door.

The first thing Holmes noticed was that room itself was not very large, but it was long. A high, domed ceiling with small windows around its base allowed light to filter through which dissipated some of the gloom, but its primary function was to make the inhabitants feel insignificant. The second thing he noticed was the assortment of lethal instruments, from axes, halberds, and longswords, to rifles, crossbows, and pistols. The third thing he noticed was John Watson standing in the shadow of a column to the left.

Unharmed.

It took every measure of Holmes's self-control no to run over and embrace him. Relief washed away the tension as Watson approached, smiling timidly. Holmes's gaze flickered over him searchingly, but all Watson said was "Moriarty was a most gracious host."

Holmes scowled, glancing over at Moriarty. He was on the other side of the room, inspecting a case containing two rapiers. "Trying to find you was anything but _gracious_." Holmes muttered. "I thought...you were being tortured. Or that you were dead." He swallowed hard as Watson laid a warm hand on his shoulder.

"It is quite absurd I know, but Moriarty wanted to test you. I was merely used to lure you here. Although I must say Holmes, I thought you would find me sooner. I left clues in the newspaper almost every day!"

Holmes glared at him and pursed his lips. "I am sure we can continue this discussion back at Baker Street..."

He trailed off as Moriarty walked closer. In his right hand, he held a rapier with a crosspiece that was covered by a gilded gold round plate. The hilt was wrapped in a brass cord, while the knuckle bow, shells and quillons shared a spiral design. A large pommel with a ruby in the centre secured the hilt to the weapon and provided a balance to the long, double edged blade. The other rapier in his left hand had a burnished steel hilt with a ribbed pommel. It was designed to look beautifully complex, but offered little protection to the hand. The blade was doubled edged as well. Moriarty tossed this sword to Holmes, who swiftly caught it and brought the point of the blade to rest on the floor.

"Gentlemen, I have a proposal." Moriarty declared with a touch of amusement in his tone. "I am not a man that forgives or forgets past injustices easily. Both of you have caused me more trouble than I anticipated, so surely you do not imagine that I will simply allow you to leave."

Watson regarded Moriarty with a bemused expression while Holmes's reaction was confined to him raising an eyebrow.

"I propose a duel between the detective and I." Moriarty continued. "It will be entirely honourable-"

"Of course." Holmes said, his mouth twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

"-and will conclude when the first man is wounded. If you win Holmes, I will allow you and Watson to live. However, if I win," Moriarty said softly, raising his blade, "I will kill you both."

"Hmph!" Holmes raised his own blade, casually pushing Watson further out of harm's way.

"Holmes…" Watson said, alarmed.

All he could do was watch helplessly as Moriarty lunged.

Although Moriarty was older and thus slower, this did not diminish the threat of his strong blows. His movements were methodical and calculated so that he never overextended his reach; he favoured his right leg, using it as a pivot to both thrust viciously and move back to avoid a counter attack. His style borrowed from both the Italian and Spanish schools, making his moves crisp and unpredictable. He also had remarkable foresight which allowed him to anticipate Holmes's maneuvers, his blade always one step ahead.

But years of swordsmanship and Baritsu training served Holmes well. Its guiding philosophy was adaptation and using the opponent's own strength against them, although when Holmes did find an opportunity for attack, his slashes were curt and powerful, attempting to conclude the duel as quickly as possible. In between parrying, his weaving flourishing thrusts, and the harsh sound of their swords ringing throughout the room, Holmes realized that he could not win by remaining as cold as Moriarty.

_You cannot stop love._Mrs. Hudson had told him, and he understood finally, here and now, that with his marble exterior crushed, he could allow love to pour freely from him. There was no need for secrecy, or restraint, no logic to be found in the overwhelming rush of the emotion-just the purity and focus of the moment. His mind was suddenly clear, and as he sidestepped Moriarty's stab at his gut, Holmes smiled. He took a single forward step and performed a fast underhand sweep that almost knocked Moriarty's rapier from his grip. Stumbling, he regained his balance and lunged forward, feinting a diagonal slash from the left, then twisting the blade around to the right into a riposte. The blade might have gotten past Holmes's guard, but instead it glanced off of the sword's fuller. Moriarty countered quickly with a murderous upsweep to Holmes's neck, but he spun to the right, his blade held straight out in front of him as he completed a circle, nearly cutting Moriarty in half. Then he performed a _coulé_, feinting so that his blade slid along Moriarty's in a burst of sparks and they stood locked together, a handbreadth from each others' throats.

Moriarty snarled, pushing as hard as he could. Holmes's mind raced, the sweat dripping into his eyes as his arms trembled with the effort to hold himself steady. Moriarty's face twisted into an ugly expression of triumph as he brought his full weight to bear on the blade, sneering. Holmes regarded him with pitying clinical distaste, then simply slid his leg to the right and allowed Moriarty to pitch forward. By the time he had recovered and turned around, Holmes landed an overhand chop that at first slid off Moriarty's instinctive guard, but the following attack bent his wrist. The third made his elbows to buckle, causing his own rapier to press into his shoulder, and Moriarty was forced to give ground.

In the fleeting instant before Holmes's blade ripped his vest and managed to slash his chest diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip, Moriarty realized that his decades of experience were laughable. His mastery of swordplay was useless. His vast wealth, his influence, impeccable breeding, immaculate manners, exquisite taste-the pursuits and points of pride to which he had devoted so much of his time and attention over the long years of his life-were now entirely meaningless in the face of the raw emotion that fueled Holmes's onslaught.

Moriarty managed to gasp "Enough!" just as the tip of the blade touched his chin. Holmes only lowered it when he felt Watson's gentle touch. He let the rapier slip from his slackened fingers, and leaned against him, panting. Moriarty was clutching his chest, trying to stifle the blood that was soaking through his shirt. Although Watson was furious, he still offered to tend to the wound out of principle. It was only when they were on the train back to London that Watson let himself sigh in relief. Adrenaline and awe kept him alert, staving off the deep exhaustion that threatened to lull him to sleep. Holmes seemed to be functioning on pure will, his eyes glistening brightly as he interlocked his fingers and pensively observed Watson in silence on the opposite side of the compartment. Finally, he murmured:

"A thousand apologies, my dear Watson. If it were not for my foolish pride, none of this would have occurred."

"We have been in tight spots before," Watson said soothingly, "and all that matters is that we are alive."

* * *

The candle by the bedside table had burned low, the wax slowly dripping onto the holder and filling the bedroom with its rich, sweet aroma. Watson had changed his position numerous times throughout Holmes's reminiscence, and was now resting his head on Holmes's shoulder as his long fingers entwined in Watson's hair.

"You never did tell me how you managed to create the misprint in the newspaper article." Holmes said languidly.

Watson smiled. "The Moriarty household, just like many across England as you well know, prefer to have their newspapers delivered. And since Moriarty did not completely rob me of my liberty inside, I managed to answer the door and persuade the delivery man to hand a note along with a few pounds to the fellow at the printing press."

Holmes chuckled. "I know your methods of persuasion and how you apply them." he murmured with a wicked grin.

Watson gazed at him lovingly and reached up to caress his cheek. Holmes took his hand and pressed his lips to it, wrapping his other arm around Watson as he shifted his weight on top of Holmes. They held and kissed each other in perfect silence, Watson firmly grasping Holmes's shoulders while the other man's hands traveled up and down the length of his back. Watson thought that there was something incredibly breathtaking about having Holmes's undivided attention, and each breath exchanged between them signified how precious they were to each other. By the time the candle completely burned itself out, Watson was resting his head on Holmes chest, hearing his deep hums of contentment, and feeling completely loved and safe before they both drifted off peacefully to sleep.


End file.
